


Flowers For My Beloved

by dango96



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Hanahaki Disease, Magical Accidents, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Requited Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28585245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dango96/pseuds/dango96
Summary: Constance von Nuvelle has quite a few interesting spells up her sleeve. Her latest invention, an "anti-love spell" meant to remove unwanted romantic feelings from the recipient, has attracted a few interested parties: including one Hubert von Vestra, who volunteers as a test subject. His feelings for Byleth, which he firmly believes are unrequited, have gotten out of hand, and he wants to rid himself of them before they get in the way of fighting a war.Unfortunately, things never seem to go quite as planned when it comes to experimental magic, and Hubert ends up with more than he'd bargained for.For the prompt, "Constance accidentally invents Hanahaki".
Relationships: Hapi/Constance von Nuvelle, My Unit | Byleth/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 7
Kudos: 68
Collections: FE3H Kink Meme





	Flowers For My Beloved

**Author's Note:**

> "Constance is all about doing strange, inventive magic and messing it up, right? So she sets out to solve one problem and accidentally creates a much, much worse one. The specifics of what she sought to do instead can be up to filler, as is the choice of how severe it becomes and how dark or silly the fill reads."
> 
> I hope OP enjoys it!

It starts off as little more than a dare, really. A thought experiment, while talking with dear Hapi in her laboratory.

(Technically, it's little more than an unoccupied dormitory in the Monastery that Edelgard has granted Constance permission to use as a workshop, but she rather loves the sound of it. The _House Nuvelle Sorcery Laboratory._ )

"So luff potiomf are boring by now, righf?" Hapi mumbles through a mouthful of cobbler, licking the berry juices from her thumb. She chews thoughtfully, eyes towards the ceiling, lingering on a stain there — the result of an ill-advised colored smoke spell.

"Yes, I suppose love potions are considered old hat," Constance hums to herself, by now rather used to deciphering Hapi's words even while muffled by food. "Though, I wouldn't say most of them are successful. But why do you ask?"

Hapi swallows, then picks up what's left of the cobbler, gesturing with it pinched between her thumb and forefinger.

"What if you could make a potion that made someone fall _out_ of love?"

Constance's mouth opens, and then closes, speechless, as it often does in Hapi's presence. In the same way, the gears in her mind begin turning — an odd-sounding suggestion turning out to be something far more interesting on second consideration.

"Why, that's brilliant, Hapi. You could solve so many nobility disputes in a single go! Any wayward crushes would be _crushed_!" She laughs, the back of her hand against her mouth. "And of _course_ I would be regarded as a genius for creating it!"

"Mm," Hapi makes a noise that can't entirely be registered as agreement, already back to chewing.

"But where did you think of such an idea?" Constance tips her head. "Have you been speaking to Hubert, by any chance? Potions are not my specialty, so I'll have to convert it to a spell..."

"Mm-mm." Hapi swallows neatly. "He had nothing to do with it. I was just reading some stupid book Ashe gave me."

"And?"

"And some idiot got his heart broken," Hapi huffs, suddenly sounding a touch defensive. "Wouldn't it be easier if we could just get rid of feelings like that when they're not going to work out for us?"

"You're not wrong." She rubs her chin, then after a pause, begins to write some preliminary notes into the closest notebook. "But it'll take some work..."

* * *

It's a little over a week later when the doorway to her laboratory darkens, and Constance nearly jumps out of her skin when she notices the shadow approaching out of the corner of her eye. Tall, imposing, wicked, on silent footsteps —

— and none other than Hubert himself, bowing curtly.

"Constance."

"Hu— Hubert," Constance replies, screwing her features into something more polite, smiling awkwardly. "I didn't expect you to come by. Whatever do you need?"

"I've caught word of something you're working on," he says in turn, expression steely, revealing nothing. "Something for the war effort, perhaps?"

"Um," she freezes, going a little pale.

There's really no excuse for developing an _anti-love spell_ in the middle of a war, no matter how she tries to dress it up in her mind. Perhaps she could argue it's for ridding soldiers of distractions? Yet they might do better in battle, with a motivation like love to keep them marching —

But then Hubert chuckles darkly, sending her shoulders straight up in surprise. It's not a sound she's familiar with, and it's downright unnerving.

"I apologize," Hubert says, and then he _smiles_ , which is somehow even worse. "I am merely teasing you. Personal projects are allowed during wartime, of course, so long as they don't hamper your obligations to Her Majesty."

It takes a moment for her brain to process that he's not actually punishing her, and Constance sags in relief.

"But I wasn't lying about an interest in your work." There's a strange twinkle in Hubert's eye as he sits in the chair Hapi usually occupies, folding one of his long, spider-like legs over the other. "I've heard you're developing some sort of — the opposite of a love spell, is it?"

"Ah," Constance stammers for a moment, then perks up at the prospect of singing the Nuvelle family name's praises. "Yes! Of course! Another excellent advancement in Nuvelle magic, I'm certain you'll agree!"

"Curious idea," Hubert concurs, "but a rather useful one, for certain cases."

"And an excellent boon for Her Majesty!" Constance puffs out her chest. "Another ingenious spell to bolster House Nuvelle's glory!"

"Hmm."

Hubert falls silent, as if considering something, brushing his black hair away from his eyes. Once again, a bit of fear prickles at the back of her neck. She's never known him to be violent in the years since the war started, but — the rumors of a dangerous spymaster, willing to do anything and everything in the service of Edelgard, have always circulated in hushed tones. Even in Abyss, his name was well known.

Certainly, the one thing everyone seems to agree upon is that Hubert's bad side is perhaps the _worst_ of all possible sides to be on.

"Have you tested it on anyone?"

"Huh? W—well, no," Constance stammers, "But most of my spells have worked flawlessly on the first attempt! I—"

"Good," Hubert nods. "I'd like to volunteer."

Constance's head goes empty, for a moment.

"Excuse me?"

"I'd like to volunteer as a test subject," Hubert repeats neatly, his expression suddenly as stony as before.

"But that means you—" Constance cuts off her sentence when she notices the evil eye she's getting, straightening her posture. "I mean, you have... unwanted feelings? For someone?"

Hubert continues to look at her through narrowed eyes, before sighing, turning his head away so that she can see his sharp profile. Angular cheeks, dark eyebags, hardly any eyebrows to speak of... he looks as ghastly as he does intimidating, not unlike vampires of lore.

She's starting to see why he might have use of such a spell.

"I don't expect them to be requited," Hubert finally utters, lowering his eyes, "as you might expect from a man of my... appearance. With that in mind, these feelings are little other than a distraction from my important work for Her Majesty."

"Oh," Constance frowns. Suddenly, where fear had existed once before, she starts to feel a burgeoning sympathy for the man in front of her. For as fearsome as the stories had made him seem, he would appear to be just as human as the rest of them.

An awkward silence passes between them, and for the first time, Constance has to grapple with the _moral implications_ of this spell.

"Are you... certain?" Constance leans forward, trying to pose her next words delicately. "Is it not possible your crush would—"

"She has many suitors," Hubert flatly interjects, combing his bangs away from his face in what she can now recognize as an anxious gesture. "And in comparison to them, I am far more lacking in qualities a woman would find desirable."

Constance frowns again, wondering just who has caught Hubert's eye. Edelgard, perhaps? The rumors around the two of them have swirled since before their school days. That's the most likely option, but something tells her it isn't entirely the truth.

But it's altogether none of her business, she supposes. Hubert is old enough to make his own decisions, and her romantic idealizations aren't going to do him any favors.

"...Alright, then, if you're sure."

Hubert perks up slightly, and then straightens up from the chair, walking over to stand in front of her.

"Is the spell difficult to perform?"

"No, I can do it right now," Constance clarifies, opening her notebook — an impromptu spellbook of sorts — and flipping it to the latest dog-eared page. "You'll need to hold still and think of the one you love until the spell is over."

Hubert's nose wrinkles up. "Must I?"

"It's part of the spell."

"Fine," he sighs, and then goes very still, closing his eyes in apparent effort.

Constance's hands go to his shoulders, and she, too, closes her eyes — hovering over him, focusing magic forward into her palms. It comes naturally, as she'd been practicing it repeatedly, visualizing the spell in her mind, manifesting it with her thoughts.

 _May these feelings of yours take shape,_ she thinks, her eyes closing more tightly with the effort of it, _and then crumble into nothing, like wilting flowers._

And then it is done. She lowers her hands, and the quiet hum of magic in the air fades to nothing.

"There," Constance breathes out a sigh of relief. "It may take a few hours to fully take effect, but your feelings should fade away, now."

She's surprised to find Hubert matching her sigh of relief as he opens his eyes, looking away, brushing his fingers through his hair. "Thank you. I do apologize for troubling you with this trifle."

"Not at all!" Constance perks up, her hands behind her back, smiling brightly. "I'm always happy to serve Her Majesty! And — you _will_ put in a good word for me, won't you?"

Hubert makes a mildly annoyed grunt, but nods, looking down at her. "Yes, I suppose I can mention you aided me with a personal matter, so long as you keep the nature of that matter private."

 _Maybe it is Edelgard,_ she starts to wonder again. _Or perhaps he's just embarrassed to tell her he has a crush on someone._

Suddenly, Constance is very much starting to find Hubert endearing, with this new vulnerability exposed to her. She can't help but smirk, unintimidated by his relative height.

"But of course. As the esteemed head of House Nuvelle, your secret is safe with me!"

She throws her head back and laughs triumphantly, ignoring Hubert's quiet groan over the theatrics.

* * *

It seems miraculous, at first. The spell truly seems to be working.

The thoughts are not so distracting. His gaze is not so tempted to wander. For the first time in days, Hubert is able to focus on his work, and he gets things _done_.

How remarkable, to think that such feelings could simply be wished away. After all, his "feelings" were a mere pitiful, pointless distraction conjured up by his own brain, doomed to go nowhere. He's grateful for the absence, and doesn't feel the slightest shred of regret over the loss.

But things are not quite as they seem, Hubert soon finds, once the next war council comes into session.

They all settle into their seats, and after a summary of last meeting's events and this meeting's topics from Her Majesty, Byleth starts to speak. And for some reason, Hubert's eyes drift to the exposed skin between her neck and her chest, as is typical for him — that damnable patch of flesh that has haunted many of his evenings as of late.

He starts to wonder if Constance's spell was mere snake oil, or even a jest at his expense. Starts to lambast himself for buying into it at all, for hoping it could have been something more than that.

And yet, the feelings are... _easier_ to bury than usual. Perhaps the spell is slow to take effect, that's all. He forces his wandering gaze away, forces himself to look at her lips while she speaks. When that, too, proves distracting, he focuses on her nose.

For a while, it seems like that will be enough. And Hubert pushes the feelings down, down, down, where they belong.

_Cough._

He hardly notices the sound came from his own body until the second cough, quickly followed by the third. Before long, Byleth has stopped speaking to allow for his all-out coughing fit, his gloved fist against his mouth to muffle the noises, his chest burning and shaking with the effort of expelling whatever is in his lungs.

It's as if something is _fluttering_ there, impeding his ability to breathe. White hot panic surges through him, a purely instinctual reaction.

After a clumsy apology to Her Majesty for his rudeness, he's stumbling out of the war room, his vision greying around the edges as he struggles towards the nearest lavatory. When he finally reaches his destination, he empties his barely restrained coughs into the nearest sink, coughing and coughing until he's almost retching, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.

It feels like something has gotten caught inside of him, and it simply won't get _out_. His thoughts go back to the food he'd eaten that morning. Had a piece of meat caught itself in his windpipe and somehow, _somehow_ taken until now to make itself known? A poison? He can't think of any that would attack the respiratory system in this way, not without other symptoms.

As far-fetched as they are to begin with, all of his hypotheses go out the window when he finally feels something make its way up his throat, coughing and coughing until he's able to spit it out into the sink — a curious object, disgusting as it passes his tongue, thin and spongy and...

Blue?

He stares at the bottom of the sink in disbelief. Lying there is, as tiny and vivid as can be, slightly rumpled from its troubled passage up his body, but unmistakable — a small flower.

How bizarre. He recognizes this flower — House Vestra's duties had required him to have some education in botanicals, including what flowers can be easily and quickly distilled into poisons — and this happens to be one that is decidedly _not_ poisonous. A harmless little forget-me-not.

He must have inhaled it while outside this morning, Hubert supposes. A bizarre and unlikely occurrence, but nothing too out of the realm of imagination. And nothing to worry about. A humorous anecdote for Her Majesty.

Hubert wipes the sweat from his brow, takes a moment to compose himself in the mirror, and then leaves for the war room once more, leaving the troublesome little flower behind.

* * *

If only that had been the end of it.

The evening after that odd incident, Byleth sends for him, and so he finds himself in the doorway to Jeralt's old office — she'd started using it herself for paperwork, utilizing his desk to do her busywork and keep everything organized. It's more her office, now, than it is his, but Jeralt's coat still hangs in the corner, like a sentinel.

"You called for me, Professor?" Hubert announces himself, keeping his voice as even as possible. She's shed her coat for the evening, and he can see the way her top wraps around her delicate shoulders, framed by wispy green hair, bracketing her soft, ample breasts, and —

No, no, _no_. Hubert grits his teeth behind his lips, forces an awkward approximation of a smile. Once again, he forces himself to look at her nose, and shoves the feelings down into his soul where they won't bother him.

 _The spell is working,_ he reassures himself. And as his pulse starts to slow, it truly _does_ seem to be working. The heat in his blood starts to fade, and the plush curve of Byleth's lips becomes less distracting. Surely, it's only a matter of time until this loathsome attraction disappears entirely.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your busy evening," Byleth starts, her voice soft. "I was wondering if I could get your signature on some of these documents."

He quietly travels from the threshold to stand beside her desk, looking sideways at the aforementioned papers as she slides them in his direction. Just some authorizations, mostly — such as asking for his battalion of Vestra sorcery engineers to be reassigned to Lysithea for training purposes, or for an area of Empire territory to be allocated for temporary army housing.

A few follow-up questions prove them reasonable enough, and he leaves _Hubert von Vestra_ written on each of them in darkening ink. Byleth has always been shrewd when it comes to matters of command and allocation, and he has found himself surprisingly trusting of her judgment.

After all, that very shrewdness is part of why he'd fallen in love with—

_Cough, cough._

Hubert shudders forward over the desk, clasping a gloved hand over his mouth to muffle the sound, quickly evolving into a more violent coughing. Byleth is quick to jump to her feet in alarm, placing one hand on his back and the other on his cheek.

"Hubert?" Her voice is — surprisingly emotional, for her. It would be moving, if he could believe it were anything other than the cursory concern she'd show any of her ex-students. "Are you well? Do you want me to get Manuela?"

"No," he chokes out, even as his lungs burn with the effort of each cough. It hurts, and the pain is so uncomfortably familiar to the prior incident. "I'm— I apologize. I fear I, may have picked up a cold—"

He breaks into another raucuous set of coughs, each more violent, until _finally_ he manages to hack up whatever's been plaguing his lungs. He draws his hand away from his mouth, shaking, allowing Byleth to help steady him on his feet as his fist falls to his side.

"Hubert," Byleth repeats, worry in her voice. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Of course, Professor," Hubert sighs heavily, his lungs suddenly feeling clearer. For some reason, it doesn't relieve his anxiety much. "I'm sorry to have troubled you. I must have picked up more on my trip to Faerghus than information, I suppose."

The joke seems to reassure her somewhat, and so her hands slip away. He feels the loss of her touch keenly, and a very childish part of him desires to exaggerate his condition to feel it once more.

"If you're sure," Byleth nods. "Don't be afraid to drop by the infirmary. I know we're in the middle of a war, but your health is important, too."

"Thank you," Hubert bows lightly. "I'll be certain to take your advice if my condition worsens."

And with that, they go their separate ways, Byleth settling back into her chair and Hubert leaving her to her duties.

It's not until he's well clear of her office and on the way back to his dormitory that Hubert finally prepares to view the contents of what he'd coughed up. As his fingers unfurl, his stomach sinks — not because he hadn't expected it, but rather because of his suspicions being confirmed.

More tiny blue petals lay in his palm, crumpled from being clenched in his fist.

* * *

"Your spell has done something to me."

Hubert doesn't mean to come across as aggressive, not really. But he can't help but be harsh when his health appears to have been endangered by this fanciful spell of hers.

"Of course it did something to you. That was the whole point." Constance lifts her head, then frowns when she sees his expression. "Is it not having the intended effect?"

"Not quite," Hubert growls, turning his hand over and dumping its contents onto her desk — a handful of crumpled blue petals, half a dozen tiny forget-me-nots.

"Um," Constance blinks, unsure what she's supposed to do with them.

"Ever since you cast that spell on me," Hubert says flatly, "I've been coughing up these blasted flowers."

"Coughing up _flowers_?" She blurts out, furrowing her brow. She picks up her spiral-bound spellbook, flicking through it until she finds the spell in question. "That shouldn't be happening. That doesn't make sense, I..."

Her voice dies in her throat abruptly, and Hubert scowls, trying to get a look at the spellbook over her shoulder.

"You _what_ , Constance?"

"Well," She stammers nervously. "There's — this part of the mental incantation I use, but it was meant to be metaphorical..."

" _And what was it?_ "

" _May these feelings of yours take shape, and then crumble into nothing,_ " Constance reads out, then peeps out the last part rather quickly. " _Like wilting flowers._ "

Hubert groans heavily, turning away from her, placing a hand on the wall to lean against it exasperatedly.

"What in the world have you done to me, Ms. Nuvelle?" Hubert sighs out his frustration.

"Don't— don't worry!" Constance perks up, visibly trying to mask her anxiousness with pride. "I'll just develop a counter-spell! That's all! We'll have you back to normal in no time!"

"And what will your counter-spell do, Constance?" Hubert sneers. "Will it have me grow flowers from my toenails, this time? Can you even explain why this one failed in the way it did?"

" _Well,_ " Constance huffs. "It said, may your feelings... take shape. Are you still having feelings for her?"

"Regrettably," he hisses, then hesitates. "They've gotten... slightly easier to deal with. If I ignore them enough, they seem to disappear, at least for a short while."

A moment passes as she looks at the incantation again, holding her chin in thought.

_May these feelings of yours take shape,_

_and then crumble into nothing,_

_like wilting flowers._

_May your feelings take shape..._

_Like wilting flowers..._

_Like wilting flowers..._

"Ah!" She straightens up, thrusting a finger into the air. "I understand now!"

"You do, do you?" Hubert deadpans.

"It's manifesting your feelings as flowers," Constance says proudly, "Inside of your body!"

A long, heavy silence passes between them, and Constance starts to sag slightly, realizing the implications of her words. Hubert, for his part, twists his face in shock, then anger, and then something more subdued altogether.

"Incredible work, Constance," Hubert finally says, sagging into the nearest chair. "And do you suppose they're limited to my lungs? Little flowers, growing throughout my body?"

"I— I'll come up with a counter-spell right away! And this time, I _promise_ it'll work!"

"I hope for both of our sakes," Hubert drawls, a dark look in his eyes, "that you're right."

* * *

Hubert allows Constance some time — a day or two, to refine her spell. He's survived this long with no noticeable ill effects aside from a coughing fit here and there, he'll surely be fine for a bit longer.

Or, at least, that's what he thinks.

But then he sees Byleth smiling under the sunlight, talking with Her Majesty. He sees her in the gardens, taking tea with Bernadetta. He sees her in the kitchens, helping with the meals for the troops. He sees her by the docks, fishing for hours.

She doesn't see _him_ , of course. He makes himself scarce, standing in the shadows. Always trying to bite down on his feelings, trying not to trouble her, even as his heart quickens every time she is near.

And every little bit makes the knot in his chest grow larger, makes it harder to ignore and harder to _breathe_. It's not long before he feels like he's suffocating, and then he's straining over a bathroom sink, coughing harder and harder and harder, desperate to rid himself of these accursed flowers again.

Why forget-me-nots, he wonders faintly. Why these above any other, with their characteristic name. Perhaps some sort of prank from the Goddess, whatever vestiges of her live on in Byleth's light. Actually, he wonders if the Goddess knows about his feelings. If Byleth, too, knows.

How cruel, if she knew, but didn't say anything. How painful that would be. His chest burns with the thought of it, burns as he chokes around another throatful of blue petals, struggling to get them up one by one.

Hubert barely notices that there's blood in the sink, or that his vision is greying around the edges again. He keeps focusing on the color of those damned flowers, trying to figure out what it is they remind him of, itching at the back of his brain.

And he finally places it, right as his consciousness starts to fade.

 _That's right,_ he thinks distantly, as the energy drains from his body, slumping to the floor. _They're the same color her eyes were before she received her power._

 _The color I fell in love with,_ Hubert muses, his eyelids fluttering shut.

* * *

"..."

Darkness.

"...bert."

Nothing but a hazy, comfortable darkness. Aside from his head — that's one uncomfortable beacon in the dark, aching like he has a hangover. It makes him not want to open his eyes, to hide away from the brightness above him.

"Hubert, wake up."

Something is — important, about that voice. He wonders why. It's not quite enough to overrule the unpleasantness of his headache, so he still doesn't open his eyes to look, but some base instinct in him is telling him to obey the order, regardless.

Perhaps the voice can wait a few minutes. Just a few more minutes, and maybe he'll feel fine, drifting in and out of this darkness.

"Hubert, please."

 _No,_ he thinks faintly, eyelids squeezed tightly shut in his discomfort, resisting consciousness. _It hurts too much._

"Hubert, as your emperor, I am _commanding_ you to wake up."

There it is again. The base instinct in him, telling him this is _important_ , the most important thing he could ever do. That for this voice, he can, and should, do anything, for it is far more important than anything he might ever want for himself.

 _If it's for her,_ he thinks, lying motionless in his dark sea of thought without even truly registering who _she_ is, _I suppose I can wake up._

It's with a significant amount of effort, but he squints his eyes open, straining against the light above him. As he'd expected, it's _blinding_ , and his head hurts even more, as does his chest, but — there's a face above him, with familiar white hair let down around her shoulders, and...

 _She's crying,_ Hubert registers faintly, his brain still moving slowly, yet quickly accumulating important details. _Her Majesty is crying._

_Why is she crying?_

_This cannot stand._

_Why can't it stand?_

_It's my job to prevent it._

_How will you prevent it?_

_By killing anyone who stands in her way, of course._

"Her— Your— Majesty," Hubert mumbles, the words feeling a bit heavy in his mouth, "Who would you have me kill?"

Edelgard's face suddenly freezes, a blank expression even as the tears continue to roll down her face — and then she _laughs_ , a beautiful, anguished, and at the same time relieved sound. Then she's leaning forward, hugging him, her arms thrown around his shoulders.

"Oh, Hubert," she mumbles into his neck, "you don't need to kill anyone. I'm so happy you're alright."

There are entirely too many emotions here that Hubert is unaccustomed to feeling — confusion, embarrassment, gratitude — but he hardly has a choice. He clumsily embraces her in return, even if his arms feel a bit heavy.

"What— happened?" He manages, slow and uncertain.

"Someone found you unconscious in the bathroom." Another voice speaks suddenly, and he looks up to find Manuela standing there. "You wouldn't wake up, no matter how hard we tried, but you kept coughing up... little blue flowers. Dozens of them. I was starting to worry you'd suffered hypoxia."

"Flowers," Hubert repeats slowly, his brow furrowing. "Flowers..."

"Don't worry," Edelgard sighs. "Constance already told us all about it."

He suddenly becomes aware of another presence in the room — Constance, guiltily fiddling with her hands, and Hapi beside her, a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry for telling them," she offers, looking rather sheepish. "But, when I heard about you collapsing..."

"The counterspell," Hubert breathes out, now that awareness of the danger he's in is starting to return to him, bit by bit. "Did you prepare it?"

"I don't believe you'll like it," Constance sighs. "But yes, it is ready."

* * *

_These feelings will once again be your own,_

_Feelings, not flowers,_

_as long as you let them bloom._

_"And how can you be certain that_ this _is the spell that will work?"_

 _"Sometimes, with a spell, you can just_ feel _it." Constance looks as if she's aware of how silly it sounds, but the conviction of her words is enough that Hubert believes her — he doesn't have much of a choice, at this junction. "You can feel the magic in the words when you say them."_

 _"And did you_ really _have to include the condition that I must_ confess my feelings _?"_

_"Like I said, sometimes, you simply feel it. And with this spell—" She gestures to the spellbook, to where multiple passages have been written and crossed out, or erased. "I didn't feel it until I added that passage. I was up til the small hours of the morning working on this, you know!"_

_"You're saying that part is non-negotiable."_

_"I'm saying that without a better solution," Constance huffs, "this is the best chance you have."_

The conversation echoes in his head as Hubert rounds the corner of the Monastery's second floor, hesitating at the hallway leading to the Archbishop's audience chamber.

He's a reasonable enough man to know that if he doesn't do this, he will be in mortal peril. That he may wind up on the bathroom floor again, surrounded by blood and flowers — or worse. It truly isn't even a question.

But even with that in mind, it hardly makes it easier — especially once he's standing in the doorway of Byleth's office once again, staring at her longingly. Even now, he can feel the painful knot in his chest, threatening to make itself more of a nuisance.

Logically, it should be simple. A matter of ripping the bandage off, so to speak.

 _She doesn't love you. She can't_ possibly _love you. It's better to get it over with now, so you can move past this._

But his legs refuse to move any further than the threshold, keeping him pinned there like a vampire uninvited.

After a minute or two, Byleth finally seems to notice his presence, lifting her head in surprise. Unlike the others, she's never been startled by or scared of him — no matter how subtle he is in coming up behind her, or how heavily he'd tried to pull his old intimidation tactics back in their school days. She merely gives him a lazy smile, as if observing a stray cat walking past her door.

"Hubert," she calls, her voice inviting, loud enough to carry to the door. "It's good to see you. Are you okay? I heard you were in the infirmary."

_It's good to see you._

The words make his chest hurt more, and that in itself motivates him to move into the room. All of this is utter foolishness. He's tired of hanging on every word this woman says, tired of the daft part of himself hoping every bit of politeness is secretly indicative of something _more_.

He wants to stomp all of it out, and put this behind him.

"I have something to tell you," Hubert starts bluntly, ignoring her question, and then stops short of actually _saying_ it. Once again, he's standing by her desk, mirroring the scene from a few nights prior.

He'd rehearsed this in his head, but — it's different when Byleth is staring at him, tilting her head in confusion.

"Okay," Byleth replies slowly, her voice calm, emotionless. He has her full attention now and _damn it, that makes it even worse._

A deep inhale, and exhale — it catches on the knot in his chest, threatens to start another coughing fit. How ironic, at a moment like this, to be choking on his feelings.

"I," Hubert clears his throat, forcing himself to look at her, staring into her eyes, pale green and nigh-unblinking. "That is to say, I have... I mean..."

"It's unlike you to be nervous," Byleth points out, as indelicate as ever.

"Yes," he sighs. "This is difficult."

"You can tell me anything, you know." She leans back in her chair, her hair feathering out over her neck. "I'm not going to get mad."

"I appreciate it, but that's not my concern, unfortunately."

An awkward silence stretches out between the two of them, then.

Hubert wonders what Her Majesty would think, watching him fumble over his words like this. Were it that she ordered him to say it — how easy that would be, by comparison. He would confess his love to anyone in Fódlan, were it advantageous to her to do so.

Surely, anyone else would have been out with it by now. But here he is, tripping over his own feet, like a lovesick fool eight years his junior.

"Hubert?" Byleth says, her voice edging into a concerned tone.

"I, just wanted to tell you," Hubert says stiffly, each word forced out in front of the other like marching soldiers, "That I love you."

"Oh."

Another awkward silence. Byleth's eyes widen near-imperceptibly, bright and dewy, blinking languidly like a cat's.

_Oh._

His heart sinks in his chest, even though it feels lighter in another sense. The knot in his lungs is gone — the flowers, he supposes, have once more become a part of him. The counterspell worked. He should be relieved.

This reaction was the expected one. The inevitable one. The only possible one.

And yet, it hurts. A slower, more pervasive ache. There is a sting at the corner of his eyes, for some reason.

He opens his mouth — for what, he isn't entirely sure. To apologize, or to bid her farewell, to tell her not to concern herself with his feelings. But before he can get a word out, she interrupts him.

"Me too."

It's Hubert's turn to blink, slow and stunned.

"Excuse me?"

"I love you too," Byleth clarifies, twirling a finger around a strand of hair in an oddly endearing nervous gesture. He's never known her to be nervous before, certainly not witnessed it firsthand, and it makes his stomach do a giddy little somersault. "Or I think I do. I definitely like you, at least. That's the first step, right?"

Her words are simple enough, but each one of them feels a bit like a new blow to the chest.

"You do understand I mean romantically," He asks, breathless, hoping to the Goddess she can't hear the desperation in his tone, "don't you?"

"I want to kiss you," she replies. "That's romantic, right?"

Hubert can't help but laugh from the sheer manic shock of it, of having his expectations completely flipped on their head after this entire exhausting ordeal. And he continues to laugh, despite himself, until Byleth is looking at him in surprise, her eyebrows raised.

"Is that... funny?" Byleth asks, once again with a bit of uncharacteristic nervousness.

"I can't tell you how much I expected your answer to be the opposite of this," he manages, once the laughter quiets down. "How much I've gone through in anticipation of this moment. And yet, you continue to surprise me."

There's the subtlest sag of relief in her posture — and Byleth gets up out of her chair, looking up at him. The energy between them is less tense, now, but there's still a bit of bashfulness in the air, a less anxious anticipation.

"So... I _can_ kiss you?"

"Yes," Hubert replies, and genuinely _smiles_ , dizzy from relief and joy. Such feelings are rarely known to him, especially in the middle of a war. "I would like nothing more."

The gap closes between them, then — Byleth's small, callused hands clutching the front of his coat, urging him downward, as Hubert leans in to meet her lips with his own.

* * *

"Well, it looks like it worked out for them, but I'd say that was a pretty rotten idea, right?"

"Oh, don't say that." Constance can't help but chuckle, even as she playfully shoves Hapi's shoulder. "It was a fine idea, with a... flawed execution."

"I'm glad that Hubert figured out it was messed up before I did," Hapi groans. "I was gonna have you try it on me, next."

"You?" Constance scoffs in surprise, keeping pace with her as they walk down the hall to the first floor, leaving the second floor — and the half open door to Byleth's office — behind. " _You_ have an unrequited crush, Hapi?"

"Sorry to say I do, Coco," Hapi hums. "But I guess I'll have to deal with it the old fashioned way."

"You can't possibly leave it at that! You simply must tell me who it is!"

"Maybe I will," Hapi says, something teasing in her voice as she breaks rank, twirling around to face Constance as she walks backwards. " _If_ you split some dinner with me in the mess hall. They'll tell me to buzz off if it's just me after hours, but if it's both of us, they won't say no."

Constance laughs, putting her hands on her hips. "You know very well I would love to, as long as it's you!"

Hapi smiles, then, tipping her head down, a small blush warming her cheeks in the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please consider leaving a comment below! I'm shy and have trouble replying, but it means a lot to me!


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